Flowers
by colour me perfect
Summary: ONE SHOT Her name was Lily and she smelt like roses and hated daisies and was possibly the most wonderful thing in the world; his very own private garden that he would never be willing to share.


She always smelt like flowers. He wondered how she did it; whether she slept in fields of roses at night or maybe kept one by her bedside, but every time that she whispered past him in the halls the lingering scent of flowers would always be left behind.

Sometimes he'd follow her; lean in a little closer when she talked to him in a way that he was sure was highly unsubtle, or brush his hand against hers to see if her skin was as gentle and as delicate as she smelt. It would always fill him with warmth; a rush of heat to his stomach, floating its way up into his lungs and mixing with the air that he breathed in, reaching down to his tingling fingertips. He was sure that she knew that he was undeniably addicted to her scent, was sure that she noticed him lean a little closer, linger a little longer and brush his nose against her red hair when they hugged, always staying to long but arguably not long enough. Sometimes she would stare back at him, her hand pressed gently against his lower back, wandering fingers eliciting fire where she touched, lighting him up from the inside out.

The first time he had kissed her she had smelt like roses. He'd told her so, almost straight after, and she'd blushed as brightly as the reddest one in the garden. She had slapped his arm, telling him to stop being ridiculous before she'd wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging him back down to meet her lips. They'd kissed again after that, and again and again and it had always felt like the softest of touches; fingers tracing patterns in his belly, tickling his insides and filling him with a warm sense of contentment. Her lips lingered like a distant memory, a feeling of breathlessness and euphoria, a taste that left his mouth sweet and his throat dry.

On their first date he had given her a daisy. It hadn't been planned; instead he'd taken her out for a picnic in a park just away from Hogsmeade, and he'd found one resting just beside them in the grass. They had smuggled Firewhisky and James had consumed almost copious amounts, trying to calm the butterflies that rattled about in his stomach, and had blurted out an atrocious poem that he'd written about her in fourth year before ripping the flower out of the ground and shoving it into her hands.

Lily had been silent for a few moments, fingers curled around the stem before she'd barked out a laugh. Told him that it was just like him to give her a weed on their first date, that it was almost representative of their tumultuous relationship, and they had both laughed until they were leaning against one another, her head resting against his shoulder and his heart beating so fast that his stomach hurt. She'd reached up to kiss him, his breath full of musky alcohol and sweets, and he'd gladly returned it, her lips tattooing themselves against his.

He could remember thinking that he was done for. Her name was Lily and she smelt like roses and hated daisies and was possibly the most wonderful thing in the world; his very own private garden that he would never be willing to share. And when they said goodbye and he headed up to the room that he shared with his friends he had wondered whether he'd taken a part of her with him, because he could still smell her when he slept that night and she seemed to linger in the corners of his mind, a constant reminder of something wonderful and sweet.

The first time he'd told her that he loved her he'd handed her a poppy. It was a pathetic thing, stem withered from being over watered and petals crumpled from where he'd _attempted_ to straighten them with his fingers, but he'd held it out to her anyway, like the promise of something more than its size and its beauty. When she'd asked him why he hadn't given her roses he'd told her that he was making his memories of her into a garden in his mind, and she'd looked at him like he was insane before kissing him hard on the lips. And she loved him too — of course she did, even though he probably smelt like piss and smoke and was hardly something decent to look at, and she'd told him so before picking a dandelion from the ground and handing it to him, commenting (with a illusive smile) that maybe she'd make her own garden too.

He hadn't told her that it would never be as large and as bright as his own, even though the thought was rather prominent, but had instead asked her whether all of the flowers in her garden of him would be weeds, because he found the thought particularly offensive. When she had laughed in response he had grinned so widely that his cheeks hurt, and then she'd reached down and had thrown grass in his face, before running away with her laughter echoing behind her.

He'd chased after her; chased after it all, his entire life with her, the promise of what would come and the memories of what had passed. And a year later, when he had proposed to her as the sun rose on her birthday, he had given her a petunia and made an idle comment about its beauty in comparison to her… erm… rather unfortunate sister, and she'd slapped him on the arm before saying yes, definitely yes, absolutely; _yes_.

When they had married, her bouquet was full of orchids, and she looked so beautiful that he could barely breathe. Sirius had made a comment about disowning him but he had hardly cared, too focused on watching her walking towards him, each step lingering like a further promise of something everlasting, branding it into his body and his heart. She'd smelt like roses, too, just like she always did, and he was glad that she was something familiar that stood next to him at the start of a new chapter of his life.

He was dead too quickly to think about what flower to give her when she died. His friend had done it for him instead. Lonely and overcome with grief, Remus Lupin had brought lilies to their graves, placing them on the ground where his two friends now laid, hoping that it somehow would put James at peace. His tears had watered the flowers, had dribbled through the dirt, and he'd stared at the cement headpieces for a moment or two before he found the strength to walk away.

Remus hoped that he could smell them, dead as he was, and that they reminded him of his love. But by then it didn't matter; James had a whole garden of Lily etched into his bones.

* * *

**A/N This is just something little (and alarmingly fluffy!) that I wrote as an outlet during NaNo! I hope you liked it!**


End file.
